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by Love Like Homicide
Summary: 'He promised Pete he would help him find a better life, better than torn-up caravans and drunken fists, and he meant it with all his heart.' Michael/Pete


**Had to rush the ending because writing this made me sad. **

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At sixteen Pete was still basically a child, with round kitten eyes and hair smooth as molasses that shone in the early morning sun. His over-sized burgundy raincoat reached from his knees to his cheeks and the fingers poking out the sleeves were wrapped in thick purple band-aids. Despite their similarities, his youthful visage was at war with the perpetual gloom that radiated from Michael's every movement. It was evident even in the shadows under his icy eyes and the jagged dint in the bridge of his long, thin nose. He breathed hard into the cool air and watched fog like smoke from the cigarettes they ran out of yesterday. Michael had torn his last one in half and given Pete the end with the filter, tolerating the chunks of tobacco, like singed grass, as it caught in his mouth and throat.

They left their bags in the storage room of the half-burnt Pizza Hut they'd been living in and nodded to Mr B, a bearded man with blood-stained teeth and two lazy eyes, as they passed. They didn't need to worry about theft so long as Mr B, as he asked to be called, was staying with them. He's a drifter from North Park who was rumoured to have murdered his wife in a failed murder-suicide, the poison he used causing bloody lesions to fill his mouth and render him mute. This wasn't true, of course, he was just a sick old man who wanted a place to rest.

Henrietta met them at Stark's Pond in her mother's blue Honda and gave them each a thermos of coffee. 'Everyone's looking for you two, you know.'

Pete scowled. 'Bullshit, no one cares about us. They just pretend to care because it makes them look good. Pack of fucking sociopaths.'

They didn't hide. If anyone had bothered looking they would have found them already.

'Spare a smoke?' Michael asked.

She handed him the remainder of her packet. 'You guys doing okay?'

The boys shrugged and looked out at the water. The rising sun reflected off the ice and made it glow orange, like a pool of candlelight, and the image bled onto the snow and made it look warm. They'd slept here the first few nights until it got too cold and windy, and coyote howls got too close.

'I can talk to my parents again, I'm sure if they saw-'

Michael cut her off. 'It's fine, we'll be fine.'

She didn't look reassured, but he didn't want her to be. His dirty clothes and matted hair screamed anything but fine, and they needed someone to worry about them. He knew Pete wouldn't have made it this long on his own, and they wouldn't survive much longer without Henrietta's constant assistance. They would make it, though. They had to. He promised Pete he would help him find a better life, better than torn-up caravans and drunken fists, and he meant it with all his heart.

'I've got to go, I promised Firkle I'd drive him. See you tomorrow.' She got in her car and left.

He sat down on the park bench, barely feeling the cool water seeping through his slacks, and sipped his drink. He hadn't realised it was a school day. Pete settled in beside him and leaned his head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around Pete's shoulder and closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth and comfort of another living form.

'You should pawn the cane,' he said.

Michael opened his eyes. 'Like hell I'm doing that.'

'You look like one of those crazy homeless guys who pretend to be millionaires.'

'Than maybe I should buy a top-hat.'

Pete giggled. 'Sir Michael of Pizzeria Manor.'

He smiled. 'Fuck off.'

They didn't sit long, they had to begin their daily trek into town.

They refused to beg, which made getting food difficult. Sometimes if they stood outside a bakery or supermarket during the lunch rush, one of the young mums with a half-dozen shopping bags and a couple small children running circles around her legs would take pity on them and give them something small like a loaf of bread or a couple apples. Never money, though. No one trusted homeless kids. No parent wanted to believe that someone could hurt their own children, so they must be into drugs or crime or alcohol. They got pity, the sort a person can tell their friends about so they look like a caring person, but never any understanding.

This time they managed a tomato and basil roll and a juice box. Michael gave them both to Pete, who seemed unsure. He nodded and Pete looked guilty, but he didn't argue, it was almost four and he was too hungry. Some days neither of them ate, some days Michael didn't eat, but he wouldn't let Pete go without if he could help it.

When they got back to their makeshift home Mr B was laying on the stained linoleum with a three-day old newspaper on his chest and trail of spittle running from his mouth to his ear. They snuck past him into the storage room, where they had a few miss-matched blankets and pillows spread out on the floor, and half-melted candles balanced on the empty metal shelves. There was going to be a storm tonight, they could hear it in the air, and the crumbling walls and smashed narrow window didn't offer much protection. It was best to be asleep before the worst of it hit.

They huddled up together in their blankets and Michael wrapped his arm around Pete, like he always did at night, and kissed him. Pete's lips were cold as if he were floating in the frozen pond, and flecks of ice clung to his eyelashes. He laid down, his head on Michael's chest, and soon enough he was snoring lightly.

Michael sighed and ran his fingers through his friend's hair. He wasn't going to sleep tonight. He didn't tell Pete, but Mr B was dead. He could tell them moment he saw the poor old man. He didn't know how Pete would take it, he took most things better than expected these days, but everyone had a breaking point, and he feared that would be his. Their lives were falling apart around them and he swore he would keep them together, but he was just one man. One boy. He couldn't protect anything.

This was all his fault.


End file.
